


Pity and Scars

by tomioneer



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, because I ship it, hint of erejean, i don't know how to use these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomioneer/pseuds/tomioneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is nothing more than the soldier left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh wow. Why is my first fic on Ao3 literally for a series I started a week ago?
> 
> Anyway, don't hate me.

Waiting for a soldier to come home isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Being a soldier makes it even more difficult. At least the majority of those whiling their days away awaiting news can feel secure in the knowledge that--should they be out with their child, parent, sibling or friend--they would prove only to be a liability.

Not so for Jean Kirschtein. He’s gone through too much training, survived too many battles, to believe even for a moment he would be useless. But he, like every normal parent, child, sibling, or friend, is tasked with waiting within the relative safety of the Walls for the Scouting Legion’s return. Standing in the streets, perusing the marketplace, ignoring the looks of pity cast his way when people recognize the wings on his back, his breast, his throat.

(No one understood why he got the tattoo. Not then and not now, but Jean has never needed to be understood--not if you don’t count shouted orders on the field of battle. Somehow, those never do seem to count anymore.)

He’s given an apple by a merchant’s wife, a handful of flowers by a little girl with freckles who looks too much like Ymir, and too much like Marco. It’s difficult to accept them, the flowers. The whole process involves a fair bit of uncomfortable shifting and overextending the joints in his left hand to accommodate the apple while accepting the flowers with the grave appreciation they deserve. His fingers spasm around the head of his cane and the apple nearly slips into the dirt; he barely catches it in time.

His leg hurts. Peering around for a near stack of crates or row of barrels, Jean reminds himself to be grateful because he, at least, still has his. It’s more than a lot of soldiers could say, if they were still alive. It’s a fact his mother reminds him of--quite gently--on a regular basis. An elderly man sees him looking and begins to stand, slow and pained, to make a spot for Jean on a bench. He has to hold up a hand, order the man back down with his Captain’s voice to stop him. Put a heavy hand on the frail shoulder to convince him of his words. (“It’s alright, sir. Thank you.”)

Everyone knows him. It is not the cost of being a hero; it is the cost of knowing one. People look at him, see the tan jacket, the Wings of Freedom on his pocket, and they feel respect. They see them on his neck and feel awe, not because of anything Jean has achieved but because everyone, in every city knows-- 

The man with the wing tattoo stood with Eren Jaeger, who was humankind’s hope. He was a commander of troops, one of the elite, he helped overturn the government--Then they see the cane. 

On some days, the bad ones, Jean feels that’s all he is now. A tattoo and a cane. Ink in skin and wood held in a gnarled hand. He’s a hundred and fifty-six pounds of pity and scars, labeled for the public’s convenience. He’s twenty. 

He’s _twenty_. And sixty year old men are trying to give him their seats. It never fails to put a bad taste in his mouth. 

“You’ve been through too much,” the man says, drawing Jean from his woolgathering. Grey eyes drop to the straps and steel on Jean’s right leg. Along with the cane and his own steely determination, the braces are the only things allowing Jean to stand and walk as well as he does. It’s a personal design of Hanji’s, and he’s lucky to have it. “Seen too much for your years.” 

“No, sir,” he says, thinking of his surviving classmates beyond the walls, possibly fighting for their lives, possibly swimming in Eren’s mythical ocean. He would kill to be with them. He has killed, numerous times, to set their world onto the path allowing such exploration. His leg makes joining the mission impossible--there are still Titans, few and far between though they are. A cripple would only slow the Legion down. “I have not seen enough.” 

They are silent; the elder thoughtful, Jean considering the flowers in his grasp. He leans heavily on the cane; he’s overtaxed himself after all. 

“I know you,” the old man says at length. Jean nods once, thinking again how everyone seems to know him these days. He spends a lot of time out of doors, and talks to a lot of important people. He talks to Eren, the most important person of all. The next words are a surprise, however. “You brought my grandson home from three different expeditions. Even after he died, you brought him home.” 

“What was his name?” Jean asks, because he has long since memorized the names and faces of every soldier who died by his word. They flit through his dreams when he sleeps, live under his eyelids the rest of the time. He’s different from Armin and Erwin like that--more like Levi. It was what finally bonded them after a long history of misunderstandings. 

“Jacob.” 

Glancing at the old man, Jean takes in his good clothes, his salt-and-pepper hair. He is not starved and he is not ill; he’s well taken care of. Only one ‘Jacob’ ever came from a home well-off enough to afford that. “Marks,” he guesses, and gets a nod. Jacob Marks had been a sweet boy and a good soldier, if a little impertinent. He’d confessed to Jean, blushing red but with bright eyes, and snuck a kiss on the cheek two hours before being swatted out of the air like a horsefly. Three solo kills to his name, but upwards of fifteen assists. Died on impact. “Good kid.” 

“The best.” 

Jean lifts his apple to his mouth, because what can you say to something like that? As he takes a bite, flowers creating a yellow and white curtain between his eyes and the rest of town, a shiver goes down his spine. A second later a bell rings loud and true through the city: the Legion is back. Closing his eyes, Jean fights not to sigh. He needs to sit down. He needs _rest_. 

But he needs to know his friends are okay. Needs to see how many soldiers died, how many have returned and in what condition, and what they saw out there. Decision long since made, he braces himself for the trek to come, the bad news. Mentally prepares to allow tears to soak into his shirt as needed. 

Like with so many things in his life, Jean grits his teeth and bears it, taking his leave of old Mr. Marks and turning towards the gate. He hobbles amidst the rushing crowd, nearly run over but never quite touched. He’s used to it by now, living on the edges of city life. He’s not a proper soldier, but he’ll never be a normal man. Glances askance prove this. The wide berth around him proves this. 

More than anything, the way Eren’s gaze picks him out of the crowd proves this. They exchange small, tight nods as the procession passes Jean’s location, then each redirects their attention--Eren to staying upright on his horse with only one leg, Jean to counting heads. He knows seventy five people left two months ago. By the time the impromptu parade is over, he’s left standing in shock. 

Sixty seven. 

 _Sixty seven_ people made it back. There are a few missing limbs, yeah. A stretcher here and there. Lots of people sitting in the backs of carts with visibly bandaged ankles or wrapped knees. But he sees wide smiles, sun burnt cheek and maps held out in upraised hands. They only lost eight soldiers. 

He’s left weaving on the spot as the crowd disperses, some trailing after the last cart--the one with a few sheet-covered figures laying prone--others returning to the daily bustle of life. There is a merry air to the city now, approval and delighted surprise. 

“But that’s what we can expect from now on,” he hears a man say. “After all, they’ve got humanity’s savior with them...” 

The change from just a few years ago is jarring. Jean wants to turn on them, wants to shout. What happened to wasting taxpayers’ money, he would say. What happened to wasted resources? And do you really think this is all just because of Jaeger? You think he’s the only one contributing to this? You give him too much credit. He shifts to do just that--takes a step, thunderous expression already in place. 

Wrong leg. 

Jean barely catches himself, forget the apple and flowers. The brace locks at his knees from the too-quick movement, a failsafe suggested by Connie. For a moment Jean teeters on the edge of collapse, the regains his balance and lifts his toes high as they go, undoing the catch. 

He grimaces down--wasted food, wasted affection--and prepares to make a spectacle of himself. It’s a requirement if he wants to pick something up; bracing himself with the cane, lifting his bad leg up behind him and bending down, arm outstretched. It took a while to perfect, and even longer to sacrifice his dignity for comfort. Using this method he retrieves the flowers first, ignoring whispers sympathetic or otherwise, and unsnaps his breast pocket, tucking the stems inside. Only once they are secure does he prepare to pick up the apple. 

He stops short when a boy jogs forward and grabs it. The kid looks half-starved but extends his hand to return the fruit. Jean almost says no, tells the boy to keep it. It’s clear who needs it more. But he knows the look in the kid’s eyes. Even if Jean said the words, they would go unheard. (Pity and pride are a dangerous mix.) “Here, mister.” 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, accepting and resigned. It’s grimy now, street dust caked in where Jean had taken what few bites he managed before the bell. The kid scampers off in the direction of a motherly shout while Jean is considering the pros and cons of simply wiping the apple on his shirt and eating it now. He decides to wash it off with his canteen when he finds a seat, then refill that at the nearest private pump, not doubting for a moment his ability to gain access to it. People don’t really refuse him things anymore--like his very presence is a luxury they can’t afford to turn down. Even Mikasa is downright kind to him half the time. Most people are. 

Well. Eren is the exception to the rule. But he’s Eren, an asshole and a dick and the reason Jean can’t ride horseback or use 3DMG in the first place. (Some might think these are reasons Eren should refuse him _nothing_ \--Jean heard Sasha yelling at him for it once. But even she doesn’t fully understand, and that’s alright.) 

Such thoughts are what carry Jean to the nearest row of crates. Only as he’s taking his seat does Jean remember he meant to confront the merchant earlier. He vaguely recognized the man, who has long since wandered off with his buddies, and could probably find him without too much trouble should he really wish to give him the what-for. Laying his cane behind him, Jean stretches out his cramped hand, then runs it through his sweaty hair. If he’s being honest with himself, he can admit it’s ultimately unimportant. Like most things behind the Walls.

Life in the cities is so plebian. It’s downright discouraging. Better, he decides with the apple in one hand, reaching back to unfasten his canteen with the other, to focus on what news the Legion might bring. One of the only truly enjoyable things left to him is sitting around a table with his friends and attempting to sketch out the various things they describe. It always end in disaster, too many people talking about too many things all at once, until finally only Armin or Connie’s voice is left to cut through the night, painting incredible images of endless forests and almost infinite lakes. 

Pouring water over his hand and the apple held within, Jean feels a smile creep across his face. 

To think the day would ever have come when he would look forward to Eren Jaeger slamming open the door to his house--one of three on the property shared between what’s left of the 104th. Though judging from Eren’s injury, it may be more along the lines of Mikasa carrying him in and dropping him on the bed. There’s a chance Eren may heal entirely in the few hours it will take the Legion to give their formal report, but he doubts it. (The maniac _likes_ having excuses to lounge around and make others do all the cleaning to meet his _absurd_ standards. Of course, since Jean maintains the house when all the rest are gone, he gets to sit out as well. It gives them a chance to catch up, one studiously ignored by the rest of their cohort.)

Hiding his grin behind a bite of apple and swig of water, Jean leans back against the wall behind him and starts plotting the path home.

 


End file.
